


you're writing lines about me, romantic poetry

by loveontherocks



Series: is there somewhere [1]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, bookshop au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-05
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-04-24 22:15:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4937308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveontherocks/pseuds/loveontherocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There’s a moment where there’s just the soft quiet, a calmness that blankets Liam and this boy, just the sound of their breathing, the rain pelting the glass, the turning of a page. And then, the boy begins to read in a voice that’s akin to a whisper, accent thick over his words, the lilt of his tongue serenading Liam with romantic poetry he’s never heard and probably won’t remember, but Liam takes the time to listen the boy’s voice, the words he speaks and how the lines of poetry curl around his heart and make a home in his arteries. </i>
</p><p>or; Zayn reads poetry to Liam in the middle of the night, in the middle of a bookshop, because they're in love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you're writing lines about me, romantic poetry

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!
> 
> Not a monster fic this time, this one's pretty tame. The title comes from Halsey's "Is There Somewhere".
> 
> I don't own anything, but please enjoy 4.5k of schmoop. All typos are my own, sorry if you've encountered any.

The bell overhead chimes as he enters the bookstore. The sign on the door reads 'closed' but Liam knows the door’s been left unlocked for him. He's so tired, a heavy exhaustion settling in his bones, leaving his body aching and heavy. His legs are barely carrying him, football practice still weighing him down even at this time of night. It's near midnight; he's ready for the night to dwindle down into a restful sleep. 

Liam's eyes wander over the expanse of the bookshop; it isn't big but it feels like it is when it’s empty and the only company he has are thousands of books he's never picked up to read and one faithful reader. When his eyes reach where the register sits, there's a boy there, with stark black raven hair he's so fond of, shoulders hunched over an open book that lays flat on the counter. He’s beautiful, in the simplest way, a quiet aura Liam doesn’t know how to interrupt. He looks comfortable in his big maroon colored sweater, fingers nimble as they play with a chain that hangs from around his neck. Liam could stand here and watch the boy read for hours.

The boy looks up at him while Liam is standing in front of the door still, not having made his way further into the shop just yet. He looks inviting with his sleepy eyes and soft smile, so Liam steps in further to lean against the counter and close the boy's book.  

"Made your way here okay?" The boy asks, voice thick and tired, his mouth curling over the words and pouring into Liam's bloodstream. Liam nods.  

"Just fine," Liam responds easily. He smiles at the boy, wanting to reach out and touch the boy, run his fingers through that black hair he knows is so soft. Instead, he says, "What have you got for me tonight, darling?" 

The boy rounds the corner and takes Liam's hand in his own, fitting their fingers together so easily, pulling him into an empty aisle. There's a pile of blankets already on the floor like every other night Liam's come into the shop, a modest stack of books just off to the side. Liam drops to his knees and bends down to look through the titles (older books, comics, newer titles, children’s books and bestselling mysteries) until he finds a book of poetry.  

(The boy always lets Liam choose what they read for the night. Different genres, books Liam's never heard of, and Liam always, like clockwork, chooses the book of poetry. There's something about the boys voice that settles deep inside of Liam, a sweet cadence that makes for a sound sleep in the middle of the bookshop until the sun comes up.) 

"You choose," the boy says, like he does every time, with a secret smile that Liam's starting to believe is just for him. The boy's brown eyes glitter in the dim light, so beautiful, certain. "I'll be back in a second."  

Liam watches the boy walk away, his black jeans fading into the dark as he rounds the corner, his sock covered feet not making a sound against the soft carpet.

It takes a moment, but Liam uses the minutes he has to himself to make himself comfortable. He sheds his jacket and his shoes, sets them down at the end of the aisle. He's already in sweatpants and a sweatshirt; it gets cold in the bookshop at night, especially at three in the morning when it’s raining the hardest and the wind won't let up, seeping through the crack underneath the front door. He loves it though, the distinct chill that brings the two of them together in the middle of the night, huddled underneath a single blanket, using chests for pillows and arms for holding each other close, fingers threaded through hair and the promise of kisses, but never the fulfilment.  

The boy makes his way back into the aisle, shutting off the lights so there's just one overhead that stays on while they read. In his hands, he holds two mugs of hot chocolate, gifting one to Liam. He sits close, shoulder to shoulder with their backs against the bookshelves. Liam can smell his cologne between whiffs of the chocolate, something musky and woodsy and Liam wants to push his face into the crook of the boy's neck and inhale, set the palm of his hand over the boy’s chest and feel the escalating thump of his heart beat.  

(He remembers the very first night, months ago, when it was just before midnight, when he'd gotten into a fight with his flat mate because he confessed the possibility of liking boys. Liam hadn’t a clue where to go, only stumbling upon a boy with raven hair smoking a cigarette on the curb in front of closed up bookshop. The boylooked sharp, all edges with his leather jacket and the smoke flowing from his mouth like breathy promises, a ring through his nose and the edges of tattoos just slightly visible through the collar of his tshirt. Nevertheless, he seemed to take pity on Liam, invited him inside and made him hot chocolate and read to him until the sun's light fluttered through the curtain-less windows of the bookshop. Liam remembers spilling his mug, half full of hot chocolate gone cold, the two of them laughing as they spent the next few minutes with paper towels, trying to soak up the stain while Liam stumbled over his words, trying to tell the boy he was going to be late for class.

The boy didn't tell him his name, but he did extend an invitation to come in whenever he'd like after closing.

And Liam's spent every night there ever since.) 

"Alright there, babe?" The boy asks.

Liam turns to look at him, dark eyes glittering in the barely there light, mug of chocolate touching the boy's lips. Liam nods, smiles, allows the warmth to flow through him and simmer in his veins.

"Just thinking, darling," he replies, keeping the boy's gaze. The boy drinks from his mug and sets it down. Liam’s eyes follow the trail of the boy’s tongue, the way it licks over his pink bottom lip, leaving it wet. Liam yearns, a quiet longing for his own tongue to trace the same path over the boy's soft lips.  

(They haven't kissed, just touched, a quiet settling of their hands over heartbeats and hip bones, the softness of skin against skin in the most innocent of ways. It sets a fire inside of Liam, just thinking about it.) 

"Of?" The boy wonders.  

Liam hesitates for a moment, looking away from the boy to the stain of chocolate on the ground from that very first morning after.  

The boy seems to wait for a response, so Liam says, "Of how this place feels more like home than any of the other places I've lived." 

The boy hums, smiling, taking Liam’s hand in his own.  

"This will be your home for as long as you'd like, babe," the boy says so easily, like it’s something he’s so certain about, like he can count on Liam’s return, every night, just before the clock strikes twelve. Liam smiles in response, slides down the bookshelf so he lies down, head resting in the boys lap. The boy doesn’t hesitate to run his fingers through Liam’s curling hair, a soft scratching behind his ear, over the nape of his neck where his hair is the shortest. Liam closes his eyes, quiets his mind.

"Read for me, please?" Liam asks, a shy cadence to his words, the only thing he can say in response to the boy’s statement.  

“Poetry tonight, then?” The boy says, and Liam nods, stifles a yawn in the boy’s thigh.

“Yes,” Liam agrees. “Something pretty, if you will.”

There’s a moment where there’s just the soft quiet, a calmness that blankets Liam and this boy, just the sound of their breathing, the rain pelting the glass, the turning of a page. And then, the boy begins to read in a voice that’s akin to a whisper, accent thick over his words, the lilt of his tongue serenading Liam with romantic poetry he’s never heard and probably won’t remember, but Liam takes the time to listen the boy’s voice, the words he speaks and how the lines of poetry curl around his heart and make a home in his arteries.

It goes on for hours, at least, Liam thinks so. Soft breathing, page turning, a yawn, a giggle, the boy’s voice strong and confident, even at the parts where he speaks too fast, or slows down to savor the words on his tongue. The boy’s voice is even, assured, even when he trips over some words, stuttering with sleep on his tongue.

There’s a soft echo of _Lay your_ _s_ _leeping head, my love,_ _h_ _uman on my faithless arm_ that Liam hears, even after the boy has gone quiet. There’s the softness of his breath over Liam’s chest as he lies with him, head pillowed on Liam’s shoulder. Liam’s eyes are closed, and he’s thinking about this boy, thoughts of him swirling up in his muddled head. The night has drawn to a close and the boy sleeps now, like all the other nights they’ve shared space underneath the small blanket.

(Liam knows, if he were an author, he’s spend pages on this boy, describing in vivid detail just how beautiful he is, ethereal and light, with the sun shining behind his eyes and the sun’s heat underneath his fingertips, the earth’s strength in the sinewy muscles that make up his body. He’d use up lines upon lines, telling of the color of the boy’s eyes, how he could look into them forever, how the single freckle in his eye serves as a moon rounding his iris. Liam could spend years penning his thoughts on just how otherworldly this boy is, with his deep voice, accented by a heavy thickness that Liam could listen to forever.)

Liam shifts, just slightly, and the boy holds him tighter, leaves Liam unable to move.

“Where are you going?” the boy asks, blinking his eyes up at Liam, and Liam’s heart swells with adoration for him, makes him dizzy with the way his heart pounds in his chest, the boy’s fingers clutching the fabric of his tshirt right over his heart.

“Nowhere, darling,” Liam responds. He moves then turning onto his side, and the boy does the same, the two of them facing each other with wide curious eyes and mouths full from sleep, blinking away the early hours of the morning in favor of looking each other.

“Can’t sleep, then?” the boys says, and Liam nods.

“Thinking, mostly. It happens most nights, even while you’re asleep.”

The boy is silent for a moment, pensive, like he’s trying to rack his sleepy brain for the right words. Liam takes the silence and fills it with the soft touch of his fingertips against the boy’s cheek, the backs of his fingers smoothing over the sharp line of the boy’s stubbled jaw.

“I would stay awake for you. Every night it happens. I would.”

Liam sucks in a breath, wonders how it’s possible for a person to become more beautiful in the darkness with simple words that spill from his mouth.

It can’t be that easy, can it, to just watch a person take his heart the way this boy does, knocking knees underneath the comfort of their blanket? Liam leans forward just slightly, overcome with the feeling to touch the boy’s lips with his own. Liam’s hand rests on the boy’s cheek, thumb smoothing over the highest point of his cheek; Liam is brave enough to let his thumb trace over the boy’s bottom lip, so softly, and the moment passes so quickly Liam could convince himself that he hadn’t done it if the boy doesn’t say anything.

“What are you thinking now?” the boys says, staring Liam right in his eyes, a strong gaze Liam can’t break, not that he wants to.

Liam licks his lips, sucks in a shuddery breath, and tries to keep his heart from beating out of his chest. “You.”

The boy smiles then, a breathy chuckle falling from between his lips. He lets his eyes close. “That much is obvious, babe, I just—“

“I’m thinking about kissing you. About holding you so tight, about staying here forever, hoping that the sun never comes up because that means I have to go and you wake up alone and we’re not together and—I hate that? I do, because all through the day I’m thinking about you anyway and—and why not just stay here instead? Where it’s warm and I’m touching you and you’re reading to me and we’re—we’re …” Liam’s voice fades into silence, lips closed, like he doesn’t know what to say next because everything he’s feeling seems so heavy for the lightness dancing in the boy’s eyes. Liam wants to look away, but he can’t, he really can’t because he’s scared that everything will shatter and the sun will come up too fast and his time will be up and he’ll have to go out there, where it’s cold and wet, without this boy that glows like the sun.

The boy leans up on one elbow, looks down at Liam with curious eyes, his smile gone, his tongue licking over the pink of his lips. Liam turns to rest on his back, looking up at the ceiling.

“Babe,” the boys says, calling Liam’s attention back. The boy rests his hand on Liam’s chest, no doubt feels the way his heart thunders, the strong rhythm of his drumming heart stuttering in his chest. Liam wants to close his eyes, but he looks at the boy instead. “If you wanted a kiss, you’ve had about a million opportunities, honestly. It’s not too late, though.”

Liam leans up, surges up, really, responding to the boys words in the form of kiss, his fingers, on the back of the boy’s neck as the boy maneuvers his way over Liam’s body with a gentle ease, his thighs on either side of Liam’s narrow hips.

It’s—there aren’t fireworks. There isn’t the sound of a symphony playing cacophonous in the background. Liam’s sure the world turns the way it does just like every other night. Nothing changes.

But there is a flood of warmth that drips through his body, a new need, an urge, his hands restless as they hold the boy against his body, pressing them close, laying them back so they lay there, underneath their blanket, mouths pressed together like it’s the only way they can breathe. There’s that echo again, a soft _I carry your heart (I carry it in my heart)_ and Liam is content to settle into morning time with this boy’s weight over his body, with his tongue slipping between his lips, with his hands on the expanse of skin underneath the boy’s sweater. He’ll greet the morning knowing what it’s like to kiss this boy, to know him so simply in the form of the taste of his skin, stuck on his tongue as the sun rises over their heads.

They break apart, just for a moment, to laugh even though there isn’t anything funny. To laugh because it’s _nice_ to kiss someone in the middle of the night, to know they aren’t going to leave, to know he's right there, beside him. It’s a wonderful feeling, one that sets inside of Liam, sweet and soft, like the echo of romantic poetry in his ears.

“For a kiss like that, honestly,” the boy says, “I would have waited forever.”

Liam laughs, knows he’s blushing, but in the obscurity of the darkness, it isn’t something he needs to be shy about, especially not when the boy lays against him, hips against hips, legs tangled. Liam answers him with another kiss, because it’s the easiest thing in the world now, to reach up and press his mouth against the flesh of his throat, over the column of his neck. The boys fingers run through Liam's hair and hold his head close; Liam’s lips, as possessive as they are, kiss along the strained tendons in the boy’s neck, ease over the dip in his throat to suck a mark, one that’ll stay for a day or two, one Liam will see, one the boy will see in the morning when he sheds his clothes and looks in the mirror. There’s a sense of pride that rides through him, flushing quickly as heats floods him now, the silent gasp that the boy emits, a sound so soft Liam could have missed it. But he doesn’t because he echoes it back just as hips start to rock, and the innocence of the kiss is lost to longing, the unadulterated need to know another’s body.

“Darling, darling,” Liam murmurs, pulling away from the boy’s lips, just to rest their foreheads together. Liam’s hands set flat against the boy’s back, underneath his sweater where his skin is warm. “Slow down.”

The boy laughs, and Liam’s heart does an odd flipping in his chest. The boy falls to Liam’s side, tucking his face into Liam’s neck. “You’re no fun.”

Liam smiles. “I’ll show you I’m plenty fun, babe,” Liam says. The boy is quick to pull back and look down at Liam, happiness etched in the lines of his face, a sweet smile on his sugar lips.

“No, no. You’re babe, and I’m darling. You can’t mix them up. It’s been months. You can’t change it now,” the boy says. Liam laughs.

“Fine, fine. Sorry.” Liam licks his lips, moves so he encases the boy’s body, let’s him cuddle in close to his chest, the boy’s hand gripping his tshirt, right over his heart. “You could … you could also call me Liam, if you wanted.”

There’s a moment of silence. “Liam. _Liam._ Leeyum. I quite like that name. Suits you.”

Liam smiles, because he’s been stuck with the name his whole life; he thinks it suits him, too, yet there’s this way the boy has about saying his name, drawing out each letter, lips curling around the vowels, making it sound entirely different than he’s ever heard his entire life. Silence spreads out, even as the sun becomes lighter with the impending morning, the sun making its slow ascent into the sky. The boy’s breath seems to even out over the span of a few minutes; Liam adjusts the blanket, cuddles in close, and falls asleep before the sun’s light can come through the windows.

When he wakes, he’s lying on his stomach, blanket bunched around his waist. He reaches but he doesn’t find anyone like he expected he would.

It’s got to be morning; his body doesn’t feel like it’s gotten enough rest (and how could it, when he’d dropped off to sleep just before the sunrise?). He finds his phone tucked into one of his shoes, finds it’s nearing ten, just an hour before the store opens.

The boy has to be somewhere.

Standing up, he fixes himself, pulls down his shirt, and adjusts his pants, longs for a toothbrush and tea, maybe a bit of toast. He folds the blankets, hauls them underneath his arm as he reaches for his jacket and shoes. The mugs and stack of books are gone.

Glancing at the counter, he sees the boy, sleep wrinkled, rubbing his eyes, and running his fingers through messy hair.

(He wants to call out to him, call him _darling_ like he always does, but Liam notices another boy standing there, too, tall with curling hair that touches his shoulders.)

“Liam,” the boy starts, and Liam smiles, setting the blankets on the counter, finding he really likes the way his name drips from the boy's mouth. He still carries his shoes and jacket. “Good morning,” the boys says. “This is Harry. He works here sometimes, when I’m not, like.”

Harry smiles at Liam, a little too knowing, gives an awkward wave. “It’s nice to meet you, Liam,” he says in a deep voice that betrays his sweet, dimpled smile.

“Yes, likewise,” Liam says.

The entire exchange is quite awkward, and Liam’s never been known for having it easy when he meets new people. The boy seems to sense that.

“Well, I’ll leave you to open, Harry. Come on, Liam,” the boy says. “I’ll make you breakfast.” The boy holds out his hand and Liam takes it.

“Bye, Liam,” Harry calls. Liam looks back to give Harry a smile and an equally as awkward wave.

Upstairs, the boy is quiet, but keeps Liam close. Liam sets his things down by the door, tossing his phone with his belongings.  

It’s a tiny little apartment, is what it is. It’s small and lived in, smells like parchment and paint and is cluttered with colored canvases and stacks of books and photos of people Liam’s never met before on the wall. The boy gives into Liam’s curiosity, let’s Liam's eyes run rampant across the state of the room, an organized mess where everything seems to have a home, a certain system set up that only makes sense to the boy. Liam feels satisfied, like he’s been given a glimpse in the boy’s head.

“Do you like coffee or tea, babe? Or would you like something else?” The boy’s voice calls from the kitchen. Liam follows the sound of his voice, finds him putting on a kettle.

“Tea is fine.”

“You know, you’re usually gone in the morning. By half past six. Even on Sundays,” the boy says, observant. Liam shrugs, but guilt settles inside of him, for leaving the boy, running away even though he never wanted to.

“Yeah, I know. I—well, there’s classes. And before then, I go running. I just—something to keep up with, I guess,” Liam answers. He leans against the counter for a moment, watching the way the boy moves around, bringing down clean mugs, setting in tea bags. Liam moves, then, catches the boy’s wrist and pulls him close.

“What’s different this morning, then?” the boy asks, looking up at Liam with his big brown eyes, hair falling over his forehead. Liam shrugs.

“Dunno. Last night was different from all the other nights. Figured the morning should be as well,” Liam finally deduces, shrugging his shoulders again, because he’s not sure now, underneath the heavy scrutiny of the boy’s eyes.

“You told me your name last night. We’ve spent months together not knowing each other’s names. Isn’t that weird?” The boy asks. He disentangles himself from Liam when the kettle whistles, pouring the boiling water into the mugs. Liam leans against the counter, crosses his arms over his chest.

“I suppose it’s a little weird. I feel like I ruined it.”

“You didn’t, I promise,” the boy says with a gentle smile, shaking his head as he hands Liam a mug.  Liam makes a face down at it, catching the boy’s eyes.

“You wouldn’t happen to have milk would you? And maybe some sugar?”

The boys laughs again, but gives Liam what he asks for, then proceeds to make his own disgruntled face at Liam overloading his tea with too much sugar.

They make their way over to where the boy has a desk set up near a large window, one that faces the same direction the windows at the front of the store do. The boy hops up, sits cross legged with his tea on the window ledge. Liam copies him, looking out of the window at all the people below them, crossing the streets and walking along sidewalks, disappearing into buildings and leaving them. He watches just for a moment, wondering if their mornings are as great as his, if they’re just as in love as he is.

The boy lights a cigarette, a quick flash of the flame against the end, pouring smoke from his mouth. He leans his head against the wall, and Liam watches him, entranced at the way he falls into himself, closing his dark eyes and running his fingers through messy hair.

Liam plucks the cigarette from the boy’s fingertips, drags in his own inhale, exhales slowly out of the window. The boy is watching him, and Liam does it again, inhale-exhale of smoke, while the boy’s eyes take interest in the way Liam's lips curl around the filter.

“I probably shouldn’t like the way you do that as much as I do,” the boy says with a cheeky smile, grinning. His eyes are alight with something Liam can’t quite name but it reminds him of pulsing heat, his heart pounding, the promise of kisses against a naked body. Liam's eyes drop down the find the mark settled at the base of the boy's throat, prominent against the soft golden tan of his skin. Liam shivers.

The boy takes the cigarette back, drinks from his mug. Liam stares out of the window, comfortable here, in this tiny, cluttered apartment, with the boy he knows he loves, drinking tea on a Sunday morning and sharing a cigarette while the world turns and things go on without them.

“Will you tell me your name?” Liam asks gently, like it might scare the boy away.

“For a kiss, I might.”

Liam laughs, but he obliges, sets his mug down on the window ledge, and leans forward to press his mouth against the boy’s lips. He’s distracted for a moment because the kiss isn’t quick, isn’t chaste. It’s more than that, worlds of emotion in the press of lips, in the way they hold close to each other. The boy tastes like tea and his tongue is insistent, and Liam is okay with wanting the boy to climb over, onto his lap and _not_ slow down like Liam had urged the night before. But somehow Liam is strong enough, just enough, to pull back with a grin.

“There’s your kiss,” Liam says. And the boys laughter rings out as he takes another drag from his cigarette before passing it along to Liam. Liam inhales the smoke into his lungs and blows the smoke out through the window, looking at the boy. He stubs it out into the ashtray sitting between them. 

“It’s Zayn.”

“Zayn. _Zayn_. How lovely. Zayn. That’s a lovely name,” Liam says. “I like it.”

Zayn smiles, lifting his shoulders into a shrug. He jumps down from the desk, stretches his lithe body with his arms raised over his head. Liam sneaks a glance at Zayn, the way his jumper lifts over the waistband of his sweatpants, shows just enough skin that it makes Liam want to kiss him all over again.

“Come, babe,” Zayn says as he holds his hand out and Liam takes it, stepping down from the desk. They leave their mugs to go cold on the window ledge. It’s freezing inside, but Zayn leads him down a short hallway to a small bedroom. The curtains are drawn over the window, but sunlight spills through the cracks. The bedroom isn’t as cluttered, but Liam doesn’t devote much time to looking around when Zayn is climbing into bed, and pulling back the covers so Liam does the same. And he does, curling himself around Zayn, pressing his face into Zayn’s neck so he can mouth just along his collar. Zayn sighs and it sounds so pretty, something for Liam’s brain to replay over and over—or to figure out how to have Zayn sigh like that again. Instead, he slows down, and Zayn runs his fingers through Liam’s hair and it’s quiet in their _kingdom by the sea, to be loved with a love that was more than love._

“Goodnight, babe,” Zayn says softly. Liam smiles, lets his eyes fall closed with his head resting over Zayn’s chest.

“Goodnight, darling.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> The poems quoted in the fic are Lullaby, by WH Auden, I Carry Your Heart With Me, by EE Cummings, and Annabelle Lee, by Edgar Allen Poe.
> 
> Thanks for reading. [Tumblr.](http://softestliam.tumblr.com/)


End file.
